Wolf at the Door

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘We work the same way, Father, and I am here because the murder of Durand Wuduweard was of a man whose life meant that he was known and roamed over far larger an area than a village and its fields. More men seeking answers may mean a better result.’ Bradecote made the instant decision that to continue speaking in English would be best, since the man must clearly have enough of the language to function as a parish priest, and both Catchpoll and Walkelin needed to know everything that was being said.

  ‘And you are sure it was a murder?’ Father Hildebert sounded in need of reassurance that it was the taking of life for normal sinful purposes.

  ‘I am. However the murder was committed, somebody wanted him dead, and it to be seen that he was dead, not just disappeared into the forest and never seen again. It is very unlikely that he was killed by a man,’ and Bradecote felt sure there was not a woman’s hand in this, ‘who was a stranger to him.’

  ‘So you think it was one of my flock here in Feckenham? No, I cannot see it.’ The priest shook his head.

  ‘Father, every person who takes a life does not usually go about committing deeds of great evil each day. Often it is one thing which makes them take that fatal step. We have heard that Durand Wuduweard was not a man much liked. Perhaps he had done something in the past that only now drew revenge from another.’

  ‘You would ask me to point the finger at a man of Feckenham?’

  ‘No, Father, but we would like you to tell us as much about this village as possible, and the people within it, so that we can see the way it has reacted.’ Bradecote felt that was a circumspect answer.

  ‘Nobody has a wolf, mon seigneur.’

  ‘That is understood, but perhaps whoever does have a very vicious dog wanted someone in Feckenham to know Durand Wuduweard is very dead.’

  Catchpoll nodded in silent agreement. That was sound thinking. The priest looked uncertain, so he added his own ‘encouragement’.

  ‘Thing is, Father, that if the killer now fears that the person they wanted to know of the death may reveal them, by mistake or through relief, that person is in danger. When a man has killed once, it gets easier, I promise you.’ Catchpoll’s doom-laden tone and grim face made the priest cross himself and tremble.

  ‘I will do what I can, but I have been priest here only since Candlemas last, and I will not break the sanctity of confession.’

  ‘Thank you. We would not ask that of you, Father.’ Bradecote did not add that the priest’s patent disbelief that anyone in Feckenham was responsible for Durand Wuduweard’s death had already shown he had nothing he would need to conceal from them.

  ‘Come to my house, and we will speak.’ Father Hildebert invited them to follow him, and Catchpoll was pleased to find that the werwulf-fearing girl was sent back to her mother.

  The priest’s home was simply furnished, as befitted a man who had spent most of his years in a monastery. There was a hearth with a fire sufficiently fuelled to keep the worst of the chill from the chamber, but not so big as to make it feel cosily warm. There was a simple bed in one corner and a stool and short bench. Against one wall was a narrow table, little wider than the sitting bench, upon which were set a wooden bowl for eating, a larger pottery bowl with a jug, two rushlights, three spoons and a ladle. A cooking pot hung from a hook beneath the crossbeam of a roof truss, and a grey-black cloak hung from a wooden spike driven into one of the wall timbers. Father Hildebert sat upon the stool and slipped his hands beneath his scapular in an action that was both habitual and practical. Bradecote sat upon the bench, and there was just sufficient length left for Catchpoll to have squeezed himself upon it, but the serjeant chose rather to step back and lean against a wall. Walkelin copied the action.

  ‘Let us begin with what you know of the dead man, Father. How often did he stay in Feckenham? Had he seemed different of late?’ Bradecote knew these details would be easy to pass to them.

  ‘When I came he did not live here more than one night in a week, at my guess. His duties would take him, on foot or on his pony, away for some days at a time, but he would return and be seen about the village, though I had not seen him for a long month before the evening of – his death. He …’ The priest paused, reluctant to speak ill of a man who still lay shrouded in the sepulchral cold of his church, and with his grave half dug, since the sexton had toiled hard in the previous day’s rain and still only managed to dig half a grave’s depth before the weather defeated him. ‘Durand was a man who kept himself to himself, and I think it was as much his choice as because he was unpopular.’

  ‘And why was he unpopular?’ Bradecote nudged, gently.

  ‘He did not like people. I heard him say he preferred the trees of the forest. He was not in charity with his neighbours, nor, alas, they with him. I think he felt they did not treat him as they should. This is the lord King’s land, and he is – was – his forest-keeper. Durand saw that as being more important than being the reeve and as worthy as steward of the royal hunting lodge. In short, he wanted to be treated more as a lord than a woodsman. Knowing that I come from Normandy, he would say “we” and “them”, on the few occasions he spoke with me. His name shows some ancestry, but the mother of Golde, the maiden who cooks and sweeps for me, was the youngest sister of his long-dead wife, and told me that his Norman forebears were on the side of his mother’s sire, and even he was half English. Durand spoke a little French, though it was clumsy, and I think he learnt it in the household of a lord, from which he had been dismissed.’

  ‘Was there anyone who disliked him more than the others, or he them?’ Bradecote ensured he did not sound too eager for the answer.

  ‘I have never heard a good word spoken of him by anyone in Feckenham. Leofric, who digs the graves, even blamed him for dying when the ground was so hard and the weather so bad that it will take two days of digging to give him a grave. I have said all must pray for his soul, but few will do so.’ Father Hildebert frowned. ‘There is, of course, Cedric the Lodge-Steward, but he is a sick man whose world is now his failing body; a man dying slowly. When Durand heard of it, he laughed out loud and was heard to say he hoped it was a long, long dying. Cedric has not left his chamber these six months, and I go to him and say Mass with him and his man, Osric.’

  ‘So there was bad blood between them.’ Bradecote wondered why Cedric had been so general in saying what was thought of Durand, and was juggling two thoughts at once. One was that it would be interesting to find out if the hunting lodge kennels had been occupied recently, but the other was that Osric, however devoted, did not look strong enough to have lugged the body of Durand from one side of a chamber to the other, let alone through half the village and without being seen.

  ‘I think that is the mildest way to say it, my lord. Uncharitable as it is, the honest truth is they loathed one another, and if the soul of Cedric is not tarnished by the sin of rejoicing in the horrific death of his enemy, I will be surprised. I hope he confesses it.’ The priest sighed.

  Chapter Five

  William de Beauchamp liked to hunt, but when he wanted the sport, and not for prey that he knew he would not find. It was a gruff and growling sheriff who clattered out through the castle gates at the head of an equally morose party of men, some mounted and some on foot. Only the chasing-dogs seemed at all excited, and pulled at their leashes, pulling their handlers’ arms from their shoulder joints in their eagerness.

  De Beauchamp’s plan was to set his hounds upon any scent close to the manor of Bradleigh, so that the lord Hubert could not say he had been ignored, and then descend upon the said lord for the night before heading closer to Feckenham. Such a visit would be both an honour and an imposition, and quietly teach Hubert de Bradleigh that nigh on demanding the lord Sheriff’s attention was something about which it was wise to think twice. It was the one thing that pleased de Beauchamp on what was going to be a frustrating day.

  His hunter had been sent ahead, departing at dawn with instructions to leave his mount at Bradleigh, giving his purpose, and the
n to scout around the environs of the manor for any spoor that indicated a large dog-like creature, that it might be offered to the lymer, soulful of expression and very keen of nose, so that the dog could lead them to where it now concealed itself, and the hounds chase it to exhaustion. If it existed, de Beauchamp wanted to end it with sword or spear and not risk his dogs in a fight. In truth, this was all theoretical, and he had also told the hunter that if there was no sign of a howling beast, then a deer or boar would be acceptable. At least in that case there would be some profit to the exercise. The King was not there to hunt, so who better than his representative in the shire? He hoped any success would enable him to enjoy fine fare before the restrictions of Advent.

  When the sheriff rode through Bradleigh he had quite an audience, from a maid with an armful of fresh rushes for a floor to the lord Hubert at his gate, secretly wondering whether he ought to have had his horse at the ready in case he was invited to join the hunt. De Beauchamp halted at the manor gateway and was at his most imperious, making it clear that Hubert de Bradleigh was expected to spend his day making preparation for the hospitality he was going to offer all come eventide. Hubert was caught between disliking being treated like a steward, concern at how his household might conjure up suitable fare and enough of it, and relief that he did not actually have to spend the day riding at the side of a man who looked as if he might snarl more than any wolf. He went back into his hall to give the news to his wife, and try to calm her panic.

  Having requested Father Hildebert to lodge Catchpoll for the night and received his eager agreement, Bradecote, Catchpoll and Walkelin went to the church, empty but for the corpse of Durand Wuduweard, and a suitable place for them to plan the rest of their day. As they approached, they heard the sound of heavy breathing, and spade upon unforgiving sod. A man’s back was visible from a grave cut, and shovels of earth were being cast up out of it with a thud as they landed. The gravedigger was at least trying to finish the grave so that Durand Wuduweard might rest in the earth.

  ‘I think the good father looks at you as protection by his hearth more than a mouth to feed, Catchpoll,’ remarked Bradecote, with a smile, as they closed the church door behind them.

  ‘I doubt it not, but what he thinks don’t matter in this case.’

  ‘But what he thinks about Durand over there,’ Walkelin gave a sideways nod to where the corpse lay shrouded, ‘was quite interesting.’

  ‘Aye, that it was.’ Catchpoll’s eyes twinkled, not at Walkelin sticking doggedly to the matter in hand, for that was usual, but that he treated the victim with a certain casual disinterest. It was a big step in ‘serjeanting’ in Catchpoll’s view. Walkelin was a kind soul by nature, thoughtful in his ways, and learning both the ‘act’ of being a serjeant, and developing a thicker skin so that he was not so affected by victims or their bereaved kinfolk, came harder to him than observation or working out the tangle of a crime. There would always be some deaths that struck deep and stayed in the recesses of memory, not as filed examples but twinges, like bruises that did not like being touched, but they could not be allowed to crowd about and make a man miserable, or cloud his clear-sightedness in his work. Catchpoll kept his for the Feast of All Souls, and permitted their faces, if such they had retained at finding, to come before him as he offered prayers for them, but then banished them and got on with his life.

  ‘’Tis not often a man is avoided and disliked by all about him,’ Walkelin noted.

  ‘Unless he is a serjeant,’ murmured Catchpoll, with a long sigh that made Bradecote almost choke.

  ‘You have taken years to reach that state, and much hard work, you crafty old bastard, and you would not have it any other way.’ Bradecote grinned, but then was serious. After all, they stood in a church with a murdered man lying in one corner.

  ‘I wonder if his feeling of being better than his neighbours caused the problem, or was it his way of turning a bad thing into something good?’

  ‘I sees what you mean, my lord,’ agreed Catchpoll, ‘and for that Father Hildebert can be no use to us, but the sister of his long-dead wife might give us much.’

  ‘We ought to have asked where she lived.’ Bradecote was annoyed with himself for his lack of forethought.

  ‘I can ask the man as we saw chopping wood on our way into the village,’ offered Walkelin, ‘as long as his young guard does not take me for the werwulf,’ and at Bradecote’s nod, pulled his woollen cap lower over his ears and went out of the church.

  ‘You know, my lord, Young Walkelin is coming along right well, not that he needs to be told it. Come the day, he will do. Aye, he will do well.’ Catchpoll looked quietly pleased.

  ‘He yet lacks a little “grim bastard”?’

  ‘True enough, my lord, and I fears as that will be a problem for him, but nobody’s perfect,’ Catchpoll responded, and he was totally serious.

  Walkelin, having avoided a gruesome fate with an axe, returned with not only directions, but the name of Golde’s mother, which was Winefrid, wife of Agar. Thus, Catchpoll was able to address the man who opened the door by name.

  ‘We are the lord Sheriff’s men, Agar, and this,’ Catchpoll took a half step back to reveal Bradecote, ‘is the lord Bradecote, Undersheriff of Worcestershire. We asks to speak with your wife about Durand Wuduweard.’

  ‘She has had as little to do with him as anyone.’ Agar sounded defensive, cautious even.

  ‘As sister to his late wife she may have useful details of his past, and the past very often creeps in to twist the present.’ Bradecote did not want to be standing at the doorway longer than needful. His tone was not one of a man who waited in the cold.

  ‘Er, then you had best come in, my lord.’ Agar pulled the door wide, bowing as he did so.

  Bradecote bent his head at the low doorway and entered, followed closely by Catchpoll and Walkelin. The chamber was gloom-dark and had a strong odour of goat. By the meagre hearth fire sat Golde, winding woollen thread onto a shuttle, beside an older woman spinning from a twirling distaff. In the deeper shadows could be heard two treble voices, squabbling, though they ceased upon seeing the three men. Bradecote coughed. The goat smell was very strong.

  ‘We daresn’t let out the goats for fear they will attract the wolf, my lord, and them’s two good milk goats. My Winefrid makes the best cheese in Feckenham.’ Agar was both apologetic and proud in the same sentence.

  At least, thought Catchpoll, the man was not saying werwulf.

  ‘The lord Undersheriff wants to—’ Agar began, to his wife.

  ‘I heard.’ The woman stilled her distaff and turned to face Bradecote. She rose, and made a dutiful obeisance, which was copied by Golde. Winefrid was a narrow woman, of face and form, and somehow looked as if life had trodden all over her and left her without a spark in her.

  ‘We have spoken with Father Hildebert, who says you knew Durand when he was first in Feckenham.’

  ‘Knew about him, alas, because he courted and wed my sister; because he took our father’s work when he fell sick and died, and sent me and our mother from “his” house the day of the burial.’

  Bradecote frowned, and Walkelin actually gasped. Catchpoll simply grunted. There were men like that, who showed no respect for kin when they married into a family.

  ‘My father’s sister-son took us in, though he had little room and less to feed us all. Leofric is a good man, and no fault to him that he dug the grave for our mother within a twelvemonth. Durand,’ and she almost spat the name, ‘was never part of Feckenham.’

  ‘But what of your sister?’ Bradecote knew only that she had died.

  ‘Hard it was on her. He had wooed ardently enough to turn a girl’s head, but once she was wedded and bedded, his true nature was made clear and given free rein once Father died. He would not have her attend to any but him, nor leave the house ’cepting to wash the clothes in the brook, even if he was not home. He came once, unexpected, and found her come to see me, and he whipped her for it. She did not risk his ire again. The
boy came at little over the year, and the babe gave her something living to talk to, but once the child was weaned and walking, Durand scarce looked at her. Worse than Osric the Slave she was.’

  ‘Osric? The servant of Cedric the Steward?’ Bradecote was surprised. Slavery had been abolished in England for the better part of fifty years.

  ‘Aye, Osric. His mother was a slave and so was he born. Whatever the law might say, Osric has been a slave to Master Cedric since he was set to fetch his ball from the nettle patch, and make sure he did not wander close to the mill leat. More a dog than a man, is Osric.’

  That would account for his deference to his master as his lord, his hlaford, and his devotion. Such a man would do whatever his master demanded, even suggested.

  ‘And what happened to her?’ Catchpoll brought the subject back to Durand.

  ‘She died one winter, gasping for breath as he reported to the priest, but she was thin as my wool strand before that, and her not yet twenty when laid in the earth. I say as it was his harshness made her eager for the peace of death.’ Winefrid crossed herself. ‘There was nothing good about Durand, though I give him credit that he learnt the forest well enough.’

  ‘And you would think it his, not the lord King’s.’ Agar spoke up. ‘Feckenham has been in the holding of the King since forever long, and sometimes they do come and hunt. Diff’rent place this is, when they does so. Fine horses and noisy hounds, and everyone rushing about like wood-ants in a nest. Yet it is a rare thing, and mostly the forest is just a place all about us where we cannot let the pigs root ’cept where the wuduweard permits, if he permits, and we cannot take bird nor beast, even though Durand would boast he was sometimes sick of roebuck, and take a leg to offer to the Abbot of Alcester “from the King’s grace”. He would even berate old Gytha for taking more dried sticks from the undergrowth than he felt she ought. You would think if he and the lord King met he would not expect to be the one who bent the knee. If you wants to hang whoever killed him, you might as well know all of Feckenham would shake that man’s hand afore you do it.’